


Circling Back

by Lizard_Hans



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizard_Hans/pseuds/Lizard_Hans
Summary: In 1996, during the battle in the Department of Mysteries, a stray curse causes an explosion in the Time Room.  In 1992, Professor Binns suddenly disappears, and Hogwarts gains an unusual new history professor who is not what he seems.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is unlikely to be updated very often. I wrote the first few chapters months ago, but they've just been sitting on my computer since then, and I don't have plans to continue working on this story at the moment.
> 
> This is a time travel story, but the time travel isn't the focus. Assume that Harry arrived in the 1930s, so he's had a long time to accept that he's stuck in the past. The time travel was mostly an excuse to write Harry and Dumbledore interacting as equals, because I thought it would be an interesting character interaction. Also, Hogwarts finally gets a half-decent history teacher.
> 
> There will be some discussion of war, violence, and other dark topics, but at the moment there's no graphic violence in this story. As usual, I don't write romance or sex.

The Singing Mandrake was not the sort of place Albus frequented, though it reminded him somewhat of Aberforth’s so-called pub. The sign outside had been easy to miss, the wood partially rotted and the paint peeling away. Albus climbed a narrow staircase, above a potions shop near the junction of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. At the top of the staircase was a wooden door, a bell rung as Albus pushed it open, and within was a cramped coffeehouse. 

The ceilings were low enough that Albus had to take off his tall, pointed hat, and everything was stained a yellowish-brown from decades, perhaps centuries, of smoke. Dark, dusty curtains were drawn before the windows, leaving only narrow splinters of sunlight where the curtains didn’t quite meet. 

Charmed candles bobbed in the air above each table, dripping wax onto the tables and floors. Tables were crammed into every open space, leaving customers to shimmy between them, with quiet apologies as they inevitable stepped on toes or kicked chair legs. The entire shop smelled strongly of slightly burnt coffee, Albus tried not to allow his distaste for the bitter, unpleasant smell show. He much preferred tea himself.

Albus was beginning to wonder if he should have picked the interview venue himself. He’d been curious about what sort of place his interviewee might choose, and he’d grown quite irritated at Aberforth’s frequent interruptions when he tried to hold job interviews in the Hog’s Head. With the war over, security considerations were no longer the deciding factor in where to hold job interviews.

“Good Morning.” A young witch stood near the door, giving Albus a quick smile, “Would you like a table?” She asked. Albus opened his mouth to answer, when an older wizard came walking over.

“Albus Dumbledore?” the man asked. He was shorter than Albus, though most wizards were, and more heavily built too. His hair was a bit shaggy and mostly gray, and his eyes a rather peculiar shade of green, behind rounded glasses. The strangest aspect of his appearance, however, was that this man wore Muggle clothing beneath open black robes. The outfit was clean, and quite well made, with a white formal shirt and black pants, but even though the war was over it remained quite unusual to see grown witches and wizards wandering about in public wearing Muggle clothing so openly.

“Ah, Mr. Evans I presume?” Albus asked. The man gave a smile, looking quite relieved, and held out a hand. A curious Muggle custom Albus had not often partaken in.

“Yes. Harold Evans, very pleased to meet you Headmaster.” Mr. Evans introduced. Albus took his hand, quite excited to have the change to practice his Muggle manners, and gave Mr. Evans’s hand a vigorous shake. Perhaps too vigorous, judging by Mr. Evans’s shocked and slightly pained expression.

“You’re hardly young enough to be one of my students, please call me Albus.” Albus said. He’d always found it a bit odd to be called by his title all the time, especially by adults who’d long since finished their schooldays.

“Of course, and please call me Harold in that case. Thank you for coming, I’ve already found a table.” Mr. Evans said, gesturing toward a round table in the back corner of the coffeehouse. “Unless you would rather sit elsewhere, of course.”

“Please, lead the way.”

In the short walk from the front of the coffeeshop to their table, Albus silently took stock of Mr. Evans, or Harold, as he seemed to prefer. Harold’s dress and manners spoke to a Muggle upbringing, that much was quite obvious, almost shockingly so as even Muggleborn witches and wizards tended to adapt to magical traditions and customs by the time they reached adulthood. 

Harold was not at all what Albus had expected after having read Harold’s resume and letter of interest. Those who studied magical history tended, in Albus’s experience, to be of a more traditionalist bent than the average witch or wizard. The field of magical history, even more-so than most fields of magical studies, was dominated by the sons and daughters of old pureblood families who had access to their own family libraries and genealogies for their studies.

A half-blood, or if Albus’s suspicions thus far were correct, Muggleborn expert in magical history would be quite unusual in Albus’s experience. To convince old families to divulge the records and information necessary for most kinds of historical research would be near impossible without existing connections within that community, and neither the Ministry nor Hogwarts held very much in the way of personal records or family histories within their own archives and libraries, few families would give up such information so easily.

Harold showed Albus to a small round table in the back corner of the coffeehouse, a steaming pot of tea was already set out, alongside a few empty cups, as well as a half-finished mug of coffee. Harold sat in front of the mug of coffee, presumably left over from his wait, and Albus sat across from him. 

“Tea?” Harold asked, gesturing at the pot. Albus wondered whether someone had perhaps given Harold some warning about Albus’s preferred drink, or perhaps Harold had simply guessed. At Albus’s nod, Harold poured a cup, “Sugar? Cream?”

“Allow me.” Albus said, preferring to handle such things himself. No one ever added enough sugar for his taste. Harold handed over the cup, and pushed the cream and sugar toward Albus’s side of the table. Harold made no further comment as Albus dropped spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his tea, though judging by his raised eyebrows, Harold was not entirely unfazed by the sight.

Only once Albus took his first sip of tea did the interview truly begin.

“I received your resume, and I must say, your work history is quite unusual.” Albus began, not bothering for subtlety. After decades of hiring, and firings, Albus knew better than to let his interviewees dictate the terms of their interviews. “Your prior teaching experience was…unexpected.” Even more unexpected now that Albus had met Harold in person.

“Yes, I suppose I don’t really have the Durmstrang look.” Harold agreed after a sip of coffee. Albus thought that calling it the Durmstrang look was a rather polite way to put it, but yes, Harold hardly looked the type to have taught at Durmstrang. 

“Professor Kauko Arponen kindly invited me to lecture at Durmstrang some years ago, he still teaches history there I believe, though we haven’t been in touch for some years. I’d been trying to gain access to Durmstrang’s libraries for my own research for some time, and Kauko and I met through some mutual acquaintances. As a lecturer, I was able to continue my own research, while teaching a few classes each term. Kauko wanted someone to take over some of his classes, and I wanted access to the libraries, it worked out to the benefit of both of us.” Harold explained.

Albus vaguely recognized the name Kauko Arponen, but he didn’t think they’d ever met. Albus had visited Durmstrang only a few times in his life, though not in many decades, but he’d only ever become familiar with the headmaster there, and Gellert’s old dueling instructor (long since dead at Gellert’s hand).

“Did you attend Durmstrang as a student?” Albus asked, quite curious how a man with as obvious a Muggle upbringing at Harold might have become involved with an institution well known for its refusal to admit Muggleborn or half-blood students. Harold scoffed, as though the very idea were a bit amusing.

“Heavens no.” Harold said. “My childhood education was quite scattered.” Albus took that to mean Harold had no formal magical schooling as a child, though given Harold’s age (Albus guessed him to be in his seventies or eighties, though with wizards it was often difficult to tell) it was not at all surprising to hear that he’d been educated at home. When Albus was young, many families still distrusted any Ministry supported schooling, and most children were simply taught whatever trade their parents knew. Albus doubted it was much different during Harold’s childhood.

“And what of your Mastery?” Harold looked relieved at the change in topic, and Albus could understand why a self-educated wizard might be uncomfortable discussing his childhood in front of someone such at Albus, who ran one of the most prestigious magical schools in Europe (at least, Albus liked to think of Hogwarts at such). 

Albus was firmly of the believe that every young witch and wizard ought to attend school, but he understood that many could not, and thought it was hardly something to be embarrassed about if one were taught at home rather than in school.

“The Mastery in Magical History, I assume?” Harold asked. Albus momentary paused.

“Is there another?” Harold had only listed a single mastery in his resume. Harold ran his fingers through his hair, looking a bit embarrassed.

“Well, it’s a bit complicated.”

“History first then.” Albus said, though he fully intended to get the full story on that complication.

“Yes, well, that Mastery was awarded by Miskatonic University’s Department of Occult Studies. I graduated in 1978, and the history program at Miskatonic is fully recognized by the United Colonial Congress of North America.” Harold explained. Albus had heard of Miskatonic University; it was one of those strange institutions that they’d developed in the Americans, wherein the school had both Muggle and magical programs, though in theory the two were completely separate from one another, and Muggle students would never learn of the magical coursework on offer. The Ministry, and most European and East Asian magical governments had long since outlawed such mixed institutions, the risk of exposing Muggles to dangerous magic was far too high in the view of most, but things in the Americas were different.

“Do you have additional Masteries? You mentioned some complications?” Albus asked. Harold sighed.

“None recognized by the British Ministry of Magic.” Harold sounded somewhat resigned about that fact. Albus gestured for him to explain further. “I also hold a Mastery of Magical Theory certified by the Finnish Office of Witchcraft and Rune-Song, awarded in ’56.” Harold explained. Albus blinked, momentarily surprised. Harold shifted slightly in his seat, watching Albus’s reaction. 

“The British Ministry still recognizes the Finnish magical population as being under the rule of the Witch’s Duma, so masteries certified by the Office of Witchcraft and Rune-Song aren’t recognized by the British Ministry. I believe they’re avoid any diplomatic spats with the Duma.” Harold offered a bit of a shrug, “I suppose that would be your area of expertise.” 

Albus could only assume Harold was referencing Albus’s position as the Ministry’s representative to the ICW. The Office of Witchcraft and Rune-Song had only been around since ’17, anything less than a century old was rarely paid any attention in magical politics, where the oldest magical governments had histories stretching back thousands of years.

“The joys of politics.” Albus said, sharing a quick chuckle with Harold.

“That’s one way to put it.” Harold agreed, taking another sip of coffee.

“Magical theory, a fascinating subject.” Albus had dappled a bit in magical theory, but personally considered it rather dry, and without style or personal flair. “Have you published?” 

Harold had listed some of his history publications in his initial letter of interest, though none of his papers or manuscripts had been circulated in Britain to the best of Albus’s knowledge, but Harold had included no mention of his background in magical theory in his prior letter. Albus supposed that Harold might have thought it irrelevant given that he was applying to a job teaching history, but Albus was rather curious.

“Some, but I’m afraid the Ministry has taken issue with some of my writings.” Harold explained, with a sigh. 

Albus understood that particular pain, the Ministry’s rather overenthusiastic Office of Public Morals had taken to banning broad subject matters in recent decades, especially since the war. 

“My most recent publication was circulated in Germany, however. I may be able to get a copy reserved at a bookshop in Germany, to be picked up next time you are there on ICW business.” Harold offered. 

Albus nearly laughed at Harold’s boldness, while it was not quite illegal to tell someone where to purchase texts banned by the Ministry outside of Britain, it was certainly close enough to the edge of the law that few people would bring it up to the head of the Wizengamot himself. Much to Albus’s disappointment, it had become increasingly difficult to get his hands on banned texts in recent decades. People tended to shy away from discussing, much less selling such banned works to him now that he held a seat in the Ministry, and his personal library had most definitely suffered for it.

“I may take you up on that offer.” In their short time speaking, Albus found he rather like Harold, and his easy-going attitude. The respectful, but not at all reverent tone Harold took toward Albus, despite obviously knowing something of Albus’s history and accomplishments, was quite refreshing. 

The interview continued for an hour or so longer, with Harold’s background out of the way, they discussed teaching. Harold expounded on the differences between Muggle and magical education with the expertise of someone who has experienced both. Albus thought his earlier assumption that Harold was Muggleborn, or less likely, a half-blood raised by a Muggle parent, to be very likely by now. 

It would be terribly rude to ask someone directly about their blood status, especially during their first meeting, but Harold’s Muggle manners and his ease in speaking about Muggle education gave his background away. Harold wore his Muggle heritage on his sleeve, quite literally too given the Muggle garb he wore under his open robes, and Albus rather appreciated the stubborn attitude of someone who walked around with their politics so clearly on display.

A few years ago, Albus might have thought a such a man insane for wearing Muggle clothing so openly, or brave to the point of foolishness to say the least, but since Voldemort’s fall is had become fashionable among the more radical Muggleborns and the like to take some measure of pride in their heritage, and their survival.

When the interview came to its end, Harold and Albus said their goodbyes. Harold had evidently paid for the tea and coffee at their table ahead of time, which Albus only learned when he went to the counter to pay.

“You should receive an owl within the week.” Albus said, leaving open the possibility that he might still hire someone else. Harold nodded, seemingly not overly nervous at the prospect.

When they went their separate ways at the bottom of the narrow staircase leading up to the coffeehouse, Harold turned and walked down Knockturn Alley, while Albus turned down Diagon Alley. 

A woman wearing a long, gray robes with a floral scarf tied over her hair, followed them out of the coffeehouse. She’d been sitting only a few tables away during the interview. As Albus meandered down Diagon Alley, she fell into step beside him. After a short time, her appearance rippled, and in her place walked a stout, heavily scarred man with a peg-leg and an electric blue false eye.

“Alastor, how lovely to see you today.” Albus greeted with a sly smile. “I suppose you have something share.” Alastor grimaced as he pulled the floral scarf off of his head and stuffed it into his pocket.

“I don’t like him.” Alastor reported, quite bluntly. Albus merely hummed, unsurprised by his old friend’s assessment.

“Did you get enough information from the interview?” Albus asked.

“Of course,” Alastor scoffed, “I’ll look into him.” Neither man considered it strange in the least that they were going to be illegally using Ministry resources to run a background check on a potential employee. It was hardly the first time they’d done so.

“Let me know when you’ve found something, we could meet for tea, perhaps?” Albus asked. Alastor looked like he’d much rather not, but to a man with a mind like Alastor’s, anything short of meeting in person would be far too insecure for sensitive information.

“Better that than the mail.” Alastor agreed, and without warning, he vanished with a noise like a whip-crack. Albus shook his head at his friend’s antics, but continued his walk. It was a lovely day in Diagon Alley.


	2. Chapter 2

Alastor and Albus met in Albus’s personal office at Hogwarts a few days later. Alastor, despite his peculiarities, was very good at his job, and had brought a few feet of notes along to show too Albus.

“You shouldn’t hire him.” Alastor reported, as soon as he walked into Albus’s office. Albus sat at his desk, he’d spend the morning alternating between signing paperwork and folding today’s Daily Prophet into various paper aeroplanes and birds, then charming his lovely paper creations to fly about the room in intricate spirals and loops. Alastor, rather used to Albus’s methods of making paperwork bearable, pointedly ignored the flying papers, and sat down across from Albus, spreading his parchments across the desk.

“Tea?” Albus offered.

“No.” Alastor always refused food or drink, even from friends, much to Albus’s disappointment. “That Evans fellow, he’s dangerous.” Alastor insisted. Albus folded his hands together on his desk.

“Does he have a criminal record?” Albus asked. Alastor frowned.

“Well, none that I could find.” Alastor admitted, “That only means he’s never been caught.” Albus nodded, trying not to look at all amused, or pitying at Alastor’s (often baseless) paranoia. 

“Were you able to look into him?” Albus asked. Alastor tapped his pile of parchments.

“Yes.” Alastor pulled out the first parchment, “I confirmed the Magical History Mastery.” Alastor handed over a document, a registry of witches and wizards which the Ministry had certified as having completed masteries in magical history. Albus skimmed the list, it was disappointedly short. “There’s no records of the Magical Theory Mastery, he probably made that up.” Alastor added.

“Perhaps.” Albus quite doubted Harold had made his Magical Theory Mastery up, as the Ministry would hardly be keeping records on masteries awarded by governments which they didn’t recognize after all. It would be a rather useless lie anyhow, and one Albus could quite easily confirm or deny by reaching out to some of his international contacts.

“He applied for an Apparation License in ’66.” Alastor continued, producing a copy of said license, “Probably apparated illegally before that, very suspicious.” Albus held back a smile, the Ministry hadn’t enforced age limits on apparation until the Apparation Act of 1965. Even Albus hadn’t bothered to get an apparation license until he heard about the pending legislation back in ’64, and he doubted Alastor had a license before that either.

“He mentioned that a few of his publications have been banned by the Ministry.” Albus added, and Alastor gave a laugh which sounded more like a hacking cough.

“Not just a few, almost everything Evans has ever published is banned.” Alastor produced another parchment, this time a list of titles, publication years, and the dates that each publication had been banned by the Office of Public Morals. The document even had the seal of the Office of Public Morals on it, and Albus wondered if he should even ask how Alastor had gotten ahold of it. “They’ve got an entire file on him in the Office of Public Morals, he wrote some nonsense about dark wizards of history awhile back, and now anything he publishes is under automatic review.” Alastor clearly thought that such topics as dark wizards were reason enough for suspicion.

Reading down the list of banned publications, Albus’s curiosity was piqued. Some of the titles gave away their contents quite obviosly, such as _A Historical Overview of Dark Magic in Colonial America, 1650-1700_ , or _European Dark Lords of the 14th Century_. Other titles were more opaque, _A Response to Halle Hawthorn on Ghouls,_ _The Corpse and Personhood,_ and _Observations on Consentual Vampirism_ among the them. 

It seemed, based on the titles alone, that Harold’s publications tended toward rather gruesome subject matter. Albus mentally noted that he ought to try and purchase some of Harold’s writings next time he traveled out of the country.

“Anything from the Aurors?” Albus asked. Alastor had already said that Harold had never been arrested, but judging by Alastor’s crooked grin, he’d certainly found something on Harold in the Auror Office files.

“At first, nothing. No arrests, no fines, not even a citation for riding a broom too fast. Nothing.” Alastor explained, then leaning forward, “But then I looked deeper. No one’s that clean.” Alastor paused, clearly waiting for for Albus to response. Albus decided to play along, Alastor loved his dramatics.

“And what did you find?” Albus asked.

“I went through the sealed files,” Alastor began, and Albus hid his surprise. He’d certainly expected Alastor to do some digging and to bend the law a bit, but to go into the sealed files of the Auror Office was quite a bit further, and more illegal, than Albus had anticipated. “Found some old lists of suspected Grindelwald sympathizers.” Alastor handed over another parchment, grinning. 

Albus dearly hoped Alastor hadn’t found what he’d feared Alastor might find in those files, surely Albus had gotten those old files destroyed. Albus carefully took the parchment, and examined it. The parchment had the thin, brittle quality of a duplicated object.

Albus relaxed slightly upon realizing that his own name was not in fact on this list, though Harold Evans’s was. Alastor might be among his oldest friends, but even Alastor hadn’t the faintest clue, as far as Albus knew, about Albus’s political activities prior to the 1940s.

“Your man was a Grindelwald sympathizer.” Alastor reported.

“This list says suspected, was anything proven?” Albus asked. He recognized a few other names on the list, but they were not particularly surprising. Most were among Gellert’s old classmates, people Albus had met through Gellert when he was young.

“Nothing was proven. All of those investigations were closed after you defeated him.” Alastor admitted.

Albus considered everything Alastor had said so far. A suspected Grindelwald sympathizer whose research was not well liked by the Ministry. 

Albus could almost laugh, if not for his fame and political power, such a description could be applied equally well to Albus in his younger years as to Harold Evans. Albus only rose above suspicion because no one would dare accuse the man who defeated Grindelwald of having been one of Grindelwald’s supporters, much less one of the first and, for a time, most fervent of his supporters. 

Before Albus became a household name, some of his earliest publications were banned, and remained banned by the Ministry. Of course, those writings were long since out of publication, though Albus hung onto a few copies for his own personal records. Albus wondered a bit at the irony that Alastor considered Evans worthy of suspicion, not even realizing that he was reporting to someone to whom those suspicions could apply equally as well, if not better.

“Thank you for your input, Alastor.” Albus said, pushing those thoughts away, and returning the parchments to Alastor.

“You’re going to hire him aren’t you.” Alastor sounded resigned, knowing Albus’s moods far too well.

“Now, I haven’t made any decisions yet.” Albus said. Alastor sighed, gathering his things.

“He’s not trustworthy.” Alastor said.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Alastor looked none too pleased with Albus’s assurances as he left.

Once Albus heard his office door shut, he took out a blank parchment and quill, and set to work writing Harold Evans an offer of employment.


	3. Chapter 3

It had taken weeks to convince his mum and dad to let him spend a week with the Weasleys over the summer, but finally, Neville had done it. Ron had been a bit embarrassed to show Neville around the Burrow at first, but Neville found the Weasley family house absolutely amazing. Not that his home was bad, Neville quite liked his own home, but with Mum working at the Ministry during the day and studying for her Mastery at night, and Dad just about running himself to exhaustion trying to get his first book ready for publication, Neville was glad to be somewhere else for a little while, especially somewhere he didn’t feel like he was interrupting someone every time he made a noise.

Soon enough, Neville had settled in on the cot that Fred and George had helped move into Ron’s bedroom, and Neville was being set to work by Mrs. Weasley alongside the entire gaggle of Weasley children, tending the garden, pulling weeds, and the like. Neville had the sneaking suspicion that most of the chores Mrs. Weasley gave the children could be done with magic, but that the chores were more to keep the children busy and out of trouble more than to actually get any real work done.

When it came time to buy school supplies, Mrs. Weasley took charge like a general, making sure everyone had their coats on, had packed a few snacks (just in case) and knew the Floo address of the Burrow in case anyone got separated from the pack. While all of the Weasley children still attending Hogwarts, plus Neville, lined up in front of her, Mrs. Weasley finally declared that they were ready to go shopping. One by one they stepped through the fireplace.

Neville, much to his embarrassment, inhaled a mouthful of ashes once he stepped into the fireplace.

“D-Diagon A-Alley.” He said, coughing. Neville instantly knew he’d done something very wrong as he spun away through the Floo, surrounded by flames and swirling glimpses of various grates as he passed them by. After a few nauseating moments, Neville came stumbling out of the fireplace of a dimly lit shop. He fell to his knees on the stone floor, coughing and wheezing, his mouth and nose burning from the ashes he’d inhaled.

When he finally got his bearing, and scrambled to his feet, Neville found that he wasn’t alone. The shop was dark, and a brief glance told Neville that this certainly wasn’t the sort of place a Hogwarts student ought to be. The human bones on a nearby countertop gave that away, but the various rusty weapons and torture implements hanging from the rafters solidified that opinion. Neville very much would have preferred to leave, and quickly too, but his arrival had not gone unnoticed. Two wizards had been quietly discussing some matter over the counter when Neville arrived, and both had gone silent, looking at Neville in surprise.

“Are you already young man?” An old man wearing black robes walked over, looking quite concerned for Neville. He reached out, as though to put a steadying hand on Neville’s shoulder, but Neville stumbled back, rather afraid of this entire situation. The man lowered his hand, and settling on giving Neville a kindly smile instead. The other wizard, who remained standing behind the counter, looking quite frustrated, only glared at Neville.

Neville glanced out the grimy shop windows, but didn’t recognize any of the shops outside. This certainly wasn’t Diagon Alley.

“Sorry about that.” Neville said, feeling his face going red. “I need to leave.” Neville made for the door, his eyes still watering, and his throat still sore from that horrible Floo trip. Before Neville could make it to the door, the door swung open, and two figures stood in the doorway – two people who could quite easily make this entire situation even worse, Draco Malfoy and his father.

Neville froze, completely unsure of what to do. He was covered in soot and ashes, completely lost, and in a shop which sold things Neville was quite sure were illegal, or at the very least Dark. Neville wished he could just disappear, and silently bemoaned the fact that he hadn’t thought to bring his dad’s invisibility cloak with him.

“Mr. Longbottom, how unexpected to see you here.” Mr. Malfoy said, and Draco gaped in shock, clearly not expecting to see Neville in such a place. Neville couldn’t muster up the courage to speak, much less run. A hand settled on Neville’s shoulder, and the wizard who’d asked Neville if he was alright before was standing at Neville’s side.

“Now, how about I show you back to where you belong young man.” The wizard suggested. Neville slowly nodded, wanting desperately to get out of there.

“I’ll be back to finish my business later Mr. Borgin.” The wizard shouted back into the shop, leaving Neville by the shoulder until they were outside. As they left, Neville heard Mr. Malfoy say,

“Touch nothing, Draco.” Before the shop door swung closed, leaving Neville and the wizard standing in the street. Neville shrugged the wizard’s hand off his shoulder.

“Am I right in assuming you intended to go to Diagon Alley?” the wizard asked.

“Y-yes.” Neville said. The wizard nodded.

“An understandable mistake young man. Diagon Alley is just this way.” The wizard said, waving a hand down the narrow, winding alley.

“Where are we?” Neville asked, “Who are you?” He didn’t want to go any further without knowing those two things at least, following a strange wizard down the road hardly seemed like a good idea, but Neville didn’t think he’d be much better off trying to find his own way. The wizard chuckled.

“Apologies, this must seem very strange to you. I’m Harold Evans, how do you do.” The man stuck out his hand. For a moment, Neville stared at the man’s open hand, quite unsure what to make of this. Then, remembering something his mum taught him, Neville reached out and tentatively shook the man’s hand a single time before dropping it. Mr. Evans didn’t look offended, but merely nodded. 

“This is Knockturn Alley, I’m afraid you’ve taken a bit of a wrong turn in the Floo.” Mr. Evans said. Neville tensed, he’d heard about Knockturn Alley before, and nothing good. He’d heard it was full of criminals, hags, and the like. 

Mr. Evans hardly looked like a criminal, he was quite well-dressed, and smiled quite a lot. Then again, Mr. Malfoy looked quite well groomed too, and Neville’s mum said that Mr. Malfoy was a Death Eater. Mr. Evans had, after all, been shopping in what Neville could only assume was a shop devoted to the Dark Arts, based on the strange skulls, weapons, and unsettling objects he’d seen for sale.

“Let’s get going, I’m sure your parents are worried about you.” Mr. Evans suggested, setting off at a brisk walk down the alley. Neville wondered if he should try and find his own way, rather than following a man who might well be a Dark wizard. Neville glanced around the alley for a moment, there was a shop advertising poisonous candles, a window display containing shrunken heads and a terrarium full of unusually large spiders, and a beggar sitting on the street corner who, upon catching Neville’s gaze, gave a wide smile filled with far too many teeth. Realizing he had no better option, Neville set off after Mr. Evans at a run.

After a few minutes of walking through wholly unfamiliar alleyways, Neville finally saw, or rather heard, something familiar.

“Longbottom!” Came a thundering shout, “What d’yeh think yer doin’ here?” Hagrid’s massive form came into view. Mr. Evans stopped, and gave Hagrid a wave. “’Arold, yer here too?” Hagrid asked, striding toward them. Neville relaxed, he hadn’t spent very much time with Hagrid, but Hagrid worked at Hogwarts, so Neville trusted him of course. In all the times they’d met, Hagrid seemed kind enough.

“I believe our young friend here got a bit lost in the Floo system.” Mr. Evans said. Hagrid glanced between Mr. Evans and Neville, and gave a loud laugh. Neville looked at his feet in embarrassment, he’d really rather that Mr. Evans didn’t tell everyone that Neville had made such a stupid mistake.

“Yer a mess.” Hagrid said, looking Neville up and down, “This’s no place ter see students.” Hagrid said, and Neville opened his mouth to say that Malfoy was here too, but Hagrid quickly tried to brush the soot off of Neville, nearly knocking him over the in process.

“I was with the Weasleys, but we got separated.” Neville said, “I coughed a bit in the Floo.”

“That’d do it.” Hagrid said, then turned to Mr. Evans, “I’ll get this one sorted out.” Hagrid said. Mr. Evans looked to Neville, and Neville gave a small nod. He’d much rather go with Hagrid than with a stranger.

“Well then, off you go. Will I see you tonight Rubeus?” Mr. Evans asked.

“O’course.” Hagrid said. With that, Hagrid steered Neville down the alley, while Mr. Evans walked back toward where they’d come from, presumably going to finish his business in that awful shop.

“What are you doing around here, anyway?” Neville asked, “It’s a bit…” Neville didn’t quite know how to describe a place like Knockturn Alley, but he certainly didn’t expect to see someone like Hagrid around here.

“I was lookin’ fer Flesh-Eatin’ Slug Repellent, they’re ruinin’ the cabbages.” Hagrid said, sounding frustrated.

“Do you know what Mr. Evans is doing here?” Neville asked, since Hagrid and Mr. Evans clearly knew one another.

“Harold? Shoppin’ probably.” Hagrid said, though that hardly answered Neville’s questions at all.

Soon enough, they passed from the narrow alleyways into the bright sunlit streets of Diagon Alley, and Neville could see recognizable buildings now, Gringotts Bank down the road, Halberk’s Supplies just a few shops down. Hagrid had gotten him back to Diagon Alley.

“Neville! Over here!” Hermione came running from the front steps of Gringotts, practically tackling Neville in a hug. Hagrid looked on with a smile.

“Have you seen the Weasleys?” Neville asked, hugging Hermione back, though with somewhat less enthusiasm.

The Weasley family spotted them moments later, and came running. While Neville quite agreed with Mrs. Weasley that the entire ordeal had been dangerous, Fred, George, and Ron thought that getting into Knockturn Alley would be an excellent adventure, and were only upset that they hadn’t gotten to come along.

Seeing that Neville had been reunited with the Weasleys, Hagrid bid them goodbye, “See ye at Hogwarts!”

Neville told Ron and Hermione all about his little trip, and even Mr. Weasley perked up at the news that Neville had seen Mr. Malfoy shopping in Knockturn Alley.

“I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for something…” Mr. Weasley said, Neville nodded along, having heard similar from his mum. The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, where Mr. Weasley, and more recently Neville’s mum, worked had been trying for years to pin Mr. Malfoy down for something, anything really. Soon enough, Hermione’s parents distracted Mr. Weasley from any further muttering about Mr. Malfoy, as Hermione’s parents were Muggles, and Mr. Weasley had a slew of questions about muggle technology that he hadn’t found anyone able to answer.

While the Weasleys went down their vault, Neville waited with the Granger family, as his mum and dad had already packed Neville a bag of galleons to buy school supplies. Mr. and Mrs. Granger were kind enough, though obviously a bit overwhelmed trying to navigate Diagon Alley.

Soon enough, the Weasleys had distributed money to each of their children, and the Grangers had changed a sufficient amount of money from Muggle to magical currency. Hermione, Ron and Neville slipped away to do their shopping after promising the adults they’d meet at the bookstore in a few hours. Mr. Weasley insisted on taking Hermione’s parents out for drinks, the Grangers had started explaining Muggle medical science and Mr. Weasley was utterly fascinated.

“You steal people’s teeth, Ariel?” Mr. Weasley asked Mr. Granger, sounding equal parts horrified and fascinated at the prospect. “Whatever for?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it theft.” Mr. Granger began to explain, while Mrs. Granger tried to hide her laugher as the three of them wandered toward the Leaky Cauldron. 

Hermione, upon realizing just how limited a budget Ron had for his supplies, took it upon herself to find the very best deals on all of their school supplies, to the point of arguing with shopkeeper at a potions ingredients shop until Ron and Neville dragged her away from the counter.

When they finally arrived at Flourish and Blott’s, having finished the rest of their shopping, they arrived just in time to see a crowd gathering to get their books signed by Gilderoy Lockhart himself, much to Hermione’s excitement. 

Hermione and Neville wanted to wait their turn in line to get into the shop, but Ron grabbed each of them by the arm and pulled them through the crowd of witches, shouting “Excuse me!” and “Coming through!” whenever he had to stomp on some toes to make way. The inside of the shop was no less crowded than the outside had been, with a long line winding up and down the aisles, all the way to the very back of the shop where Gilderoy Lockhart himself, wearing bright blue robes, sat at a table, surrounded by copies of his autobiography.

Neville, upon seeing a reporter lingering around the table, taking photographs of Lockhart, ducked into the crowd, trying to hide. He’d had more than enough of reporters growing up, and his dad said that if any reporters wouldn’t leave him alone he should just punch them right in the nose. Neville didn’t think he could punch anyone in the nose, but his dad had promised to get him out of jail if he got arrested for doing so. 

Mum’s advice had been better, she said that if he ever got harassed by a reporter when they weren’t with him, he should scream as loud as he could and refuse to stop until the reporter went away.

Hermione and Ron took a moment to catch on to Neville’s attempts to sneak out of view of the reporter, but once they had, they followed him, cutting through the crowd to hide behind some nearby bookshelves.

“Look, it’s Malfoy and his dad.” Ron said, elbowing Hermione and pointing toward the shop doors. Sure enough, there was Draco Malfoy and Mr. Malfoy, pushing their way through the crowd until Mr. Malfoy came to an abrupt stop upon seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weasley trying to work their way toward the piles of Lockhart books, in search of enough copies of each book for their children.

“Well, well, well – Arthur Weasley.” Mr. Malfoy said, and Ron, Hermione and Neville, from their hiding spot behind a nearby bookshelf, peered around the shelf to watch.

“Lucius.” Mr. Weasley said in a cold tone Neville had never heard from him before. The witches waiting nearby for Lockhart’s autograph glanced about, and seeing the brewing confrontation, stepped away a bit.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” Mr. Malfoy walked closer to Mr. Weasley, “All those raids…” Mr. Malfoy reached out suddenly, and quickly, grabbing a battered looking book of Ginny’s basket. Mrs. Weasley, who stood at Ginny’s side, tried and failed to grab the book back.

“What’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?” Mr. Malfoy asked, examining the second-hand book.

Mr. Weasley looked about ready to attack Mr. Malfoy there and then, when a familiar figure approached.

It was Mr. Evans, from that shop in Knockturn Alley, with Percy Weasley following at his heels, clutching a cauldron full of books and looking confused.

“Lucius, how lovely to see you again so soon.” Mr. Evans said with strange sort of smile, he walked right between Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Weasley. While Mr. Evans had been wearing his black robes buttoned all the way up earlier, his robes now hung open, and Mr. Evans wore a Muggle shirt and slacks underneath. Mr. Malfoy’s noise crinkled at the sight.

“Ah, Mister…Ethan, was it?” Mr. Malfoy asked, Percy walked around to stand by his parents. “This is a private discussion between me and these blood-tra-“ Mr. Malfoy did not get the chance to finish his sentence, as Mr. Weasley launched himself at the taller man, knocking Mr. Malfoy back into the bookshelf that Hermione, Ron and Neville were hiding behind, sending the three children running. Ginny’s cauldron of books went flying through the air, and Percy was tripped over a pile of books while trying to scramble away from the fighting, his own cauldron’s contents falling to the floor.

“Get him, Dad!” One of the Weasley twins shouts, and Mrs. Weasley was screaming at Mr. Weasley to stop. The crowd had begun to flee the area in a disorganized stampede, and books were falling everywhere. An employee leaped into the fray, trying to pull Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Weasley apart. Mr. Evans stepped in to help the employee, and in a few moments, they had the two men pulled apart. The employee dragging Mr. Malfoy to one side, and Mr. Evans pulling Mr. Weasley to the other side. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip, and blood oozed down his chin, while Mr. Malfoy had a torn sleeve, and held his hand to the side of his head.

Mr. Malfoy picked up a pile off books off the ground, and shoved them toward Percy, “Take your books Weasley.” And with that, he ripped himself out of the employee’s grasp and grabbed Draco by the arm, leaving the shop with his son in tow.

Mr. Evans stayed for a few minutes, helping Ginny gather her books, and asking Mr. Weasley several times if he’d hit his head. The employee stood nearby, seemingly undecided about whether to kick the Weasleys out, or whether he ought to just let them gather their things and leave on their own. Mrs. Weasley gave the employee a ferocious glare, and the employee fled back toward the crowd, assuring those who had gathered for autographs that everything was just fine, there’s been a small misunderstanding. 

Mr. Evans looked around for a few moments, inspecting the books scattered on the ground in confusion, but left as quickly and quietly as he'd come, seemingly without buying anything at all. Neville lost track of Mr. Evans when Ron grabbed him by the arm to make sure Neville didn’t get left behind.

They left the shop soon after, Mrs. Weasley nearly shaking with anger, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger looking quite frightened by the entire affair.

“ _Brawling_ in public, a fine example to set for your children.” Mrs. Weasley spat. Mr. Weasley held his sleeve to his cut lip, and looked quite disappointed with himself.

The Grangers and Weasleys went their separate ways at the Leaky Cauldron, though not after Mrs. Weasley had talked for a long time with Hermione’s parents in a quiet corner of the pub, after which Mr. and Mrs. Granger looked rather solemn as they took Hermione to go catch a bus. Neville went along with the Weasleys, though this time he made sure to pronounce the name of his destination correctly as he stepped into the fireplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's confused about Neville's home situation, he was adopted by the Potters after his biological parents were attacked by Death Eaters.


	4. Chapter 4

On August 25, a mere week before students would be arriving at Hogwarts for the start of the term, the faculty and staff gathered for their first meeting of the term.

The purpose of the meeting was threefold, first to ensure that all staff were ready for the arrival of the students, second so that staff could be told about any changes or concerns for the upcoming term, and third, to introduce new additions to the staff.

And it was largely for that third purpose that Harold Evans, and his new colleague, Gilderoy Lockhart, were met at the train station in Hogsmeade by Minerva McGonagall. Harold, after having spent the past few hours on a train with Gilderoy for company, was quite low on patience, and ready for this evening to be done with.

“Hello, are you Mr. Evans and Mr. Lockhart?” A stern looking woman with gray hair, and dark blue robes asked as soon as the two of them had gotten off the train. There had been very few other passengers on board, and the rest had already left the platform, seemingly knowing exactly where they were going.

“I’m Harold Evans, and you are?” Harold asked.

“Greetings, I am Gilderoy Lockhart, at your service.” Gilderoy added with a theatrical bow, his brilliant green robes glimmering with embroidered silver filligree, before the woman could respond to Harold’s introduction. For a moment, she simply started at Lockhart, blinking as though unable to believe what she was seeing. He only grinned wider in response, teeth glittering in a way that must have been the result of some kind of cosmetic charm.

“I am Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.” She introduced with a bow of her head, “Since we will be working together, Minerva is appropriate.” She added. “I have a carriage waiting to take you both to the castle.” Minerva said, leading them toward a rickety looking carriage, pulled by a pair of thestrals, whose eyes caught the light of the lanterns which hung over the train platform nearby.

Harold hefted his battered looking trunk into the back of the carriage, while Gilderoy took the rather more sensible approach of simply levitating his trunk up into the back of the carriage. Once all three of them had bumbled into the carriage, Minerva sitting across from Gilderoy and Harold, who were cramped next to each other like sardines in a can, the carriage began to move.

Their journey wasn’t long, though the road was bumpy and deeply rutted from many years of use. Once they came to a stop at the castle, Minerva got out first, and as Gilderoy and Harold got out, stretching their legs. Gilderoy looked up at the castle looming over them with fondness, while Harold’s expression went curiously blank at the sight, his eyes widening with something like sadness, or perhaps awe.

“Welcome to Hogwarts.” Minerva said, “Though, Gilderoy, I suppose this is rather more of a homecoming for you.” She added after a moment. Gilderoy quickly did away with his nostalgic expression, instead giving a wide smile,

“I knew I would be coming back one day, of course. I always wanted to pass on my incredible knowledge and skill to the next generation.” He said, in his usual style.

“The castle is quite beautiful.” Harold added, more subdued.

“Leave your belongings in the carriage, the elves will ensure that your things are taken to your quarters.” Minerva said, as Harold turned to pull his trunk out of the carriage. Minerva led the way up the steps, to a pair of massive wooden doors which swung open at her approach.

“They’re far too heavy to open by hand.” Minerva mentioned as they walked through, “Though I’ve seen more than a couple of students attempt it.”

As they walked along the halls, Minerva pointed out various locations, largely for Harold’s benefit.

“The Great Hall is just through those doors, you’ll see it later this evening. And just up those stairs is Albus’s personal office.” Minerva explained, until eventually, after walking down many hallways and up and down several sets of stairs, they came to a nondescript wooden door with a painting of man fishing in a creek hanging upon it.

“Don’t scare off the fish.” The man in the painting warned.

“Anfractuous.” Minerva said in return, and the door swung open. “The password changes every week, a notice will be sent to your office.” She explained, before stepping inside.

The staff meeting room was sparsely decorated, but comfortable. Armchairs were scattered about, and a thick carpet lay over the stone floor. A fireplace stood at the far end of the room, and a low table covered in cups, kettles, and bottles sat before the fireplace. Paintings covered the walls, though only a few of the inhabitants of said paintings were paying any attention to what was going on below. Most of the chairs were already taken, and several quiet discussions came to a stop when they walked inside.

Minerva went around the room introducing everyone in a short, too-the-point way. Gilderoy, of course, took the opportunity to not only introduce himself, but to expound at length about his accomplishments and the various awards he had received from the Ministry and other magical governments.

“Hello, I’m Harold Evans, I will be teaching magical history.” Harold felt his introduction was wholly inadequate following Gilderoy’s many minutes long speech.

“Is there any firewhiskey?” Minerva asked, examining the various cups and kettles on the low table.

“I think Albus got to it.” Septima, a tall, elegantly dressed woman with very long black hair said in a disappointed tone, pointing at a small tin kettle with little stars etched into the outside. Minerva picked up the kettle, and took off the lid, giving it a sniff.

“Is that cocoa?” Minerva asked, putting the kettle down a little more roughly that was necessary. Septima nodded, and Minerva poured herself a cup of tea instead, looking disappointed.

Harold took a cup of cocoa, and found an open seat between a twitchy man named Silvanus, who was missing an arm and an ear, and a short, round-faced woman named Pomona, who gave Harold a welcoming smile. 

After one sip, Harold realized the cocoa was so sweet as to be almost impossible to drink. It was little more than hot sugar sludge, but he thought it might be rather rude to vanish his drink so soon after having gotten it, so he grit his teeth and took another sip. Gilderoy took a cup of tea, once he’d found a seat, produced a flask from somewhere beneath his robes and added a splash of something to his tea.

“Just a little something my healer recommended.” Gilderoy said with a smile. Minerva’s lips thinned, but she said nothing, though she looked at Gilderoy’s cup with suspicion, and perhaps a spot of jealousy.

Since Albus had not yet arrived, quiet discussions soon resumed, though Gilderoy had decided to rather loudly tell Filius all about the time he’d cured a werewolf, though Filius’s expression grew increasingly skeptical at the story continued.

“Harold, was it?” Pomona asked.

“Harold Evans.” Harold introduced, holding out a hand. Pomona looked at it for a second, but did not take it. After a moment, Harold let his hand drop. “Pomona, correct?” Pomona nodded.

“Yes. I was wondering, I don’t think I’ve heard your name anywhere before, did you attend Hogwarts?” She asked. Pomona, with her head of curly gray hair, and a lined face which spoke to plenty of smiling, had to be nearing Harold’s age, perhaps ten or fifteen years younger at most, though witches and wizards aged strangely sometimes, and it was always a bit of a gamble to guess at such things.

“Sadly, I did not.” Harold said, taking a sip of his overly sweet cocoa. “Now that I’ve seen the castle, however, I am beginning to regret that.” Pomona gave a snort of laughter.

“A Beauxbatons man then?” Pomona asked.

“Not in the least. My early education was rather informal, I’m afraid.” Harold explained. Pomona looked momentarily confused.

“And how does a man who never attended school go about teaching at one?” Severus, who sat at Pomona’s other side, asked. He’s remained silent until then, sitting sullenly and sipping periodically at his tea. Pomona gave Severus a warning look, clearly thinking the question offensive. Harold gave a bland smile, such a remark was a little too petty to take any real offense at it.

“Apprenticeships are still an option, even in this day and age, and I eventually did attend university, I just took a bit longer to get there than most.” Harold said.

“Don’t mind Severus.” Pomona whispered, though judging by Severus’s sour expression, he’d heard her comment.

“It’s quite alright.” Harold said. At that moment, the door opened, and Albus Dumbledore stepped through, wearing a robe in mottled purple and orange, with what appeared to be hummingbirds, in iridescent shades of blue and green, darting across the fabric. It was an eyewatering sight to behold.

“Greetings, and it looks like everyone is here. Wonderful!” Albus poured himself a cup of cocoa and, seeing as all of the chairs were taken, conjured up an overstuffed armchair with a simple flick of his wand. “And has everyone met Harold and Gilderoy, they will be joining us this year.” Albus waved vaguely at Harold and Gilderoy in turn. “Right, on to business.” He clapped his hands together, looking quite pleased.

“Gilderoy Lockhart will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I’m sure he can tell us all about his expertise in these matters far better than I can.” Albus said, waving for Gilderoy to explain the rest. Gilderoy, never one to overlook a chance to talk about himself, leapt to his feet, and began to tell of his many, many exploits, of the damsels saved, the monsters slain, and of course of his many accolades, awards, and the many strange and secret magics he’d learned from all corners of the globe. 

When Gilderoy finished, Sybil Trelawney clapped enthusiastically, her many bracelets and necklaces jingling and clinking together as she did. Albus gave a few, polite claps, though even his smile looked a bit strained by Gilderoy’s rather extensive introduction. Around the room, the rest of the faculty exchanged a range of dubious, vaguely concerned glances in silence.

“Thank you Gilderoy, that was very comprehensive.” Albus said, “And Harold Evans,” Albus waved in Harold’s direction, “Will be joining us from Durmstrang in order to teach History of Magic since Cuthbert Binns, much beloved as he was, has finally moved on.” Albus said. All eyes were on Harold, so he stood, giving a calm outward appearance.

“Hello everyone, I believe we’ve all been introduced. It’s been some years since I last taught, but I am hoping my skills in the classroom haven’t rotted away too much since I left Durmstrang. I’m honored to be here.” With that, Harold sat down. A few of the other professors were examining Harold somewhat more closely than they had before. Severus in particular, was giving Harold a speculative look.

Albus continued onward, discussing some repairs which were made to the school grounds during the summer, and warning of a bathroom on the fifth floor which had flooded recently and would remain closed off until the elves had repaired the damage. They were warned of an infestation of bats in one of the towers on the northern part of the school, and of a suspected boggart living somewhere in the dungeons.

As the meeting came to an end, Albus distributed schedules to everyone. Harold’s course load was nearly the same as those of Pomona, who allowed Harold to compare his schedule to hers. Pomona, however, had large blocks of time devoted to seeing to the needs of the Hufflepuff House, where Harold’s only duties beyond teaching courses were patrolling the halls three nights per week, and offering office hours a few times each week.

Albus asked, at the very end of the meeting, whether anyone would volunteer to show Harold and Gilderoy to their rooms. Pomona, looking rather hesitant, offered to show Gilderoy to his quarters, as the quarters for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor were apparently on her way back to her own quarters.

“And are there any volunteered to show Harold to his quarters?” Albus asked. Professors glanced around at one another, but nobody made an offer. Eventually, Minerva spoke up.

“Albus, Cuthbert didn’t have quarters.” She said. Albus sat back in his chair, thoughtful.

“Ah, yes, I suppose that might be a problem.” Albus said. “You know, Cuthbert was a ghost even when I attended Hogwarts. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen the quarters assigned to him.” Albus added. For a moment, nobody spoke.

“Perhaps we should fetch an elf?” Filius suggested. “Surely the elves would know where the history professor’s quarters are.”

“Brilliant, as ever Filius.” Albus said, then, after clearing his thought, he shouted “Bobbin.”

After a moment, a house elf appeared before Albus with a pop.

“The Headmaster is calling for Bobbin?” The house elf asked, it wore a small tailored suit, emblazoned with the Hogwarts seal, and judging by the shock of white hair on its head, and the tufts of white hair coming from its ears, the elf was quite elderly.

“Yes, Bobbin, do you know where the quarters assigned to the history professor are?” Albus asked. The elf nodded.

“Bobbin is knowing where.” Bobbin confirmed.

“Please show Harold to his quarters, he is the new Professor of Magical History, here to replace Cuthbert.” Albus said.

While Pomona and Gilderoy set off in one direct, Gilderoy talking continuously, the rest of the professors set off toward their various quarters, and Harold walked slowly behind an aging house elf.

Bobbin walked slowly, and carefully, his joints clearly troubling him. Torches on the walls every ten paces or so lit the way, along with lanterns, candles, and the occasional hanging candelabra, swaying slightly in the drafty castle.

“Bobbin?” Harold asked, after nearly a quarter hour of walking at a snail’s pace through the castle. Bobbin stopped, and looked up at Harold with large, almost luminescent eyes. “Might this go faster if…well, perhaps you could sit on my shoulder and simply tell me which way to go?” Harold offered, while it was not an ideal solution, Harold much preferred to get to his quarters sometime before sunrise. Bobbin blinked up at him for a moment.

“Is the professor offering to _carry_ Bobbin?” Bobbin asked in an incredulous tone.

“I suppose not then?” Harold asked. Bobbin narrowed his eyes.

“Bobbin will be leading the professor, and the professor will be following.” Bobbin said, clearly put out by the very suggestion of being carried. Harold sighed, and continued to follow behind the slow-moving elf.

Eventually they arrived at a wooden door, with a knocker in the shape of a dragon at its center, and a lantern hanging just above the door. The dragon shaped knocker moving, craning its iron neck to stare at Bobbin and Harold in turn with beady ruby eyes.

“The professor should be choosing a password.” Bobbin said. Harold met the knocker’s graze, and it spat a few sparks at him, though they vanished into the air almost as soon as they left its maw. Harold smiled.

“My password is Horntail.” Harold said. The dragon knocker gave a nod, and the door opened slowly, with the loud screech of unoiled hinged. Bobbin shuddered.

“An elf will be fixing that.” Bobbin said. Harold stepped inside the dark room, and raised his wand, casting a light charm.

The first room was a small parlor of some kind, with a thick layer of dust over everything. A couch stood on one side of the room, and small table and chairs on the other side, all of the furniture appeared very old. Lanterns were affixed to either wall, and Harold quickly lit them with a few flicks of his wand. A door across the room led into the bedroom, and after a bit of exploration, Harold found that the two additional doors in the bedroom led into a rather sparse bathroom, and the other into an equally sparse dining area with windows that looked down upon a garden courtyard some floors below. All of the furniture and decorations in his quarters gave the impression of the 1790s, rather than the 1990s. A few tapestries and faded landscape paintings decorated the walls, but quite reassuringly there were no portraits in the bedroom or bathrooms.

Harold’s trunk appeared to be the only thing in the bedroom which wasn’t covered in dust, though Bobbin vanished most of the dust with a snap of his fingers upon seeing the state of things. Poking around, Harold found various books, papers, and even clothes evidently left behind by the previous inhabitant of these quarters. At least the bed appeared clean, if a bit dusty, and Harold was quite tired after a long day of traveling.

“Thank you Bobbin.” Harold said, “I think I’ll be going to sleep now.” Bobbin vanished with a pop, leaving Harold to begin unpacking his belongings.

When Harold eventually put out the lamps, changed out of his robes, and lay down in bed, he’d couldn’t help but begin to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Eventually tears rolled down his cheeks, and he wiped them off on the blankets, which still smelled of dust and old fabric. For the first time in decades, he felt like he'd returned home.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey, it’s that guy from the bookshop.” Ron said once the sorting was finished, and platters of food had begun to appear on the table. Hermione and Neville looked where Ron was pointing at the end of the Great Hall. There, sitting among the professors, was Gilderoy Lockhart, and sitting a few seats down from him was Mr. Evans. Neither Hermione nor Neville were entirely sure which of the two professors Ron was pointing to, as both of them had been at the bookshop in Diagon Alley while the three of them were shopping.

“Well, one of them must be our Defense professor.” Neville said, putting some potatoes and beef on his plate, while Ron grabbed a drumstick and took a massive bite.

“Lockhart has to be teaching Defense, he’s done so many incredible things.” Hermione added, “Did you know he once defeated a banshee?”

“What about Evans then? Nev, that’s the guy you met in Knockturn Alley, right?” Ron asked. Neville nodded, he’d already told his friends all about his little adventure in Knockturn Alley, and while Ron though it sounded thrilling, Hermione had been thankful that Neville made it out without getting hurt.

“His name’s Harold Evans, he didn’t say anything about being a professor.” Neville said. Though, thinking back on the incident in Knockturn Alley, Evans did know Hagrid, so Neville figured it wasn’t that surprising that Evans worked at Hogwarts. 

It was only as the feast came to an end that Headmaster Dumbledore announced the new additions to the staff.

“Please welcome Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, he will be teaching all of you Defense Against the Dark Arts.” Dumbledore said, and Lockhart stood, his aquamarine robes shimmering in the candlelight, and gave a fanciful bow, complete with an odd twirling gesture of his arm. Ron and Neville clapped half-heartedly, but Hermione seemed determined to make up for their lack of enthusiasm. Lockhart opened his mouth, as though to continue speaking, but Dumbledore cut in before he could do so, and several of the other professors seemed to sigh with relief.

“And, I am sorry to say that Professor Binns has left us, after over two centuries of service to this school. Please welcome Professor Harold Evans, he will be teaching Magical History going forward.” Dumbledore added, and this time the cheers were far louder, with several loud shouts of joy mixed in. It wasn't that anyone was particualrly excited about Professor Evans, they hadn't a clue whether or not the man was a good professor. Instead it was the prospect of finally getting rid of Binns left every student who’d ever had to sit through one of his classes feeling overjoyed. Professor Evans stood, and gave a short bow, before sitting down again. Compared to Lockhart, Evans appeared almost solemn in his black robes, though it would take an awful lot to outshine Lockhart’s glittering outfit.

The next morning, when schedules were passed out, Ron, Neville and Hermione learned that they would be having their first Defense class and their first History class back to back.

Defense class proved to be an embarrassing experience that Neville rather hoped he’d never have to repeat. The class itself was okay, Lockhart spent most of the class introducing himself, and even gave out a test to see whether students had actually read his books. Though strangely, every question on the test had to do with Lockhart, such as asking for his favorite color, or asking his birthday. Neville and Ron exchanged confused looks, while Hermione didn’t hesitate for even a moment in filling in her exam. Neville, who hadn’t read more than the first few pages of any of Lockhart’s assigned texts, made his best guesses and tried to ignore the rising feelings of nausea and panic that were bubbling in his gut. He hated not knowing the answers.

Thankfully, while Lockhart did chide the class for not having gotten the correct answers, he didn’t name any names, and compared to Snape, Lockhart’s comments were laughable. Hermione was the only one who scored full marks, Ron rolled his eyes, and a couple of Gryffindor boys started giggling when they heard Lockhart going on about hair-care potions.

It was only when Lockhart pulled a large, covered cage out from behind his desk that students, other than Hermione and a few others, began to really pay attention. Even Ron leaned in with rapt attention while Lockhart described the dangerous creatures within the cage.

“I must ask you not the scream,” Lockhart warned, lowering his voice into an ominous tone, “It might provoke them.” With that, he whipped the cover off of the cage, revealing a dozen odd pixies, bright blue, and spitting with anger, flying around inside the large cage.

A few students laughed, nobody screamed, and even Neville felt his nerves calm a little bit. Neville’s mind had been conjured all kinds of awful things that might be in that cage, but pixies hadn’t even crossed his mind.

With little warning, Lockhart opened the cage, and complete pandemonium broke out. The pixies scattered in every direction, and Neville quickly found himself being grabbed by the ears by two of the creatures, who were far stronger than they appeared. Neville tried to grab into his desk, and he even tried to grab onto Ron, who’d been sitting next to him, but Ron had wisely taken cover under his own desk the moment the pixies had been released.

Bottles of ink, parchments, and quills were flying everywhere, pixies were seizing textbooks and tearing out pages, and while many students had the same idea as Ron, and hid beneath their desks, a few tried to fend off the pixies to little avail.

Neville, meanwhile, found himself hanging from the massive iron chandelier over the classroom, whimpering in fear, while trying not to let his robes catch fire on any of the candles. This was not at all what he’d hoped for in Defense class, in fact, Neville decided right there and then that he’d much rather be in Snape’s class. While he might end up covered in exploding potions, at least Snape would send him to the hospital wing before things got too bad, but Neville watched as Lockhart dove beneath his own desk, giving up on his attempts to corral the pixies back into their cage.

With a loud creak, the chandelier gave way, and Neville screamed until the chandelier hit the ground.

Thankfully, Hermione of all people had thought to cast a levitation charm on Neville, and though she looked quite strained by the effort, she lowered Neville to the ground on top of the bent and broken chandelier. When the bell rang moments later, students rushed for the exit without so much as a dismissal from Lockhart. Neville grabbed Hermione in a hug the moment they were out of the classroom.

“You’re a genius Hermione.” Neville said.

“Can you believe him?” Ron muttered as they made their way to their next class, he was nursing a rather nasty pixie bite on his ear.

“At least I didn’t break my ankle…again.” Neville said, recalling his painful first flying class last year.

“He just wants to give us some hands-on experience,” Hermione said, trying to defend Lockhart’s methods. Ron and Neville looked at Hermione in shock, but had little time to try and argue, as they were only minutes away from being late for their next class.

History was being held in the same classroom at Professor Binns used to teach in, but upon walking into the classroom, Neville, Ron and Hermione paused. When Binns was teaching, the history classroom had been very plain. Desks were lined up in perfect rows, and not a single painting or tapestry adorned the walls. Binns hadn’t even had a desk, being a ghost he couldn’t exactly make use of one, nor had Binns made use of the chalkboard in his classroom, as he’d been unable to pick up the chalk. While the classroom itself hadn’t changed, Professor Evans had clearly done some redecorating.

The desks had been replaced with long tables, and on the walls were a variety of paintings and photographs. A wooden desk sat wedged into one corner of the classroom, and the windows were open, letting in a warm breeze. A few bookshelves stood behind the professor’s desk, and Hermione craned her neck as they walked past, obviously trying to glance at the titles. They walked around the room until Ron spotted three empty chairs next to each other, enough room for them to sit side by side.

“That’s a Muggle photograph.” Hermione whispered as they made their way to some empty chairs. She pointed at a framed picture on the wall, a sort of rocky gray landscape with the night sky in the background, and a strangely puffy figure with a circular head and gray clothing. Nothing in the picture moved. Neville couldn’t make heads or tails of the photograph, and Ron looked equally confused.

“It’s the moon.” Hermione explained as they took their seats.

“Huh?” Ron looked between Hermione and the photograph, “But the moon isn’t in that picture.” Hermione opened her mouth to explain, when the professor walked into the classroom from his office in the adjoining room.

Professor Evans wasn’t wearing robes, that was the very first thing Neville noticed. It wasn’t that the professor was naked, not at all, but that he wore a Muggle set of shirt, coat, and trousers. If not for the wand in the professor’s hand, it would have been quite easy to mistake Professor Evans for a Muggle if he’d anywhere except Hogwarts.

“Good Afternoon.” Evans greeted, charming a bit of chalk to start writing on the chalkboard at the front of the room.

_Professor Harold Evans, Magical History Year 2_ , the chalk wrote in blocky script.

“I think we’re still missing a few students.” Evans said, looking at the scattered empty seats, “Well, while we’re waiting, how about we go around the room introducing everybody so that I can learn your names.” Professor Evans suggested. “I’ll go first, I’m Harold Evans, and while I’ve heard some…troubling things about your previous history professor, I’m hoping that this class will be interesting and informative for everyone.” He said with a smile, then pointed at a Ravenclaw student sitting at the end of the front row. “Now, go ahead and introduce yourselves.”

One by one, each student said their name, and a few added which house they were in. By the time the bell to start class rung, a few more students had filed in, and just about every seat was filled. Once everyone had introduced themselves, Professor Evans nodded, standing in the very front of the classroom.

“Alright, let’s get started then. Now, I’ve heard a few things about your previous history professor. It does no good to speak ill of the dead, but…” Professor Evans sighed, and a few students had to choke down laughter. Professor Binns had been just about the worst professor, barring Snape of course, that any of them had ever had at Hogwarts. Even Professor Quirrell, in Neville’s mind, had been an okay professor other than the whole Voldemort thing at the end.

Neville quickly focused back on the front of the classroom, he tried not to think about Quirrell too much, the end of last year had been _bad_ and Neville didn’t want to start having nightmares about it again.

“To get started, how about you all tell me what you’ve learned about history.” Professor Evans said, then pointed at a student, Seamus from Gryffindor. “You first, say one thing you’ve learned about magical history.”

“Um,” Seamus thought for a moment, “Goblin rebellions?” Seamus said.

“What about goblin rebellions?” Professor Evans asked, picking up a piece of chalk. Seamus hunched down, as though trying to disappear into his seat.

“They happened…” Seamus said in a quieter tone. Professor Evans waited a moment, and seeing that this was all Seamus had to say on the subject, turned to the chalkboard and wrote _Goblin Rebellions_.

“Alright, one point to Gryffindor. You next, with the red quill.” Professor Evans said, pointing to a student sitting near the back of the classroom, a girl from Ravenclaw whose name Neville couldn’t remember.

“Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin founded Hogwarts.” She said. Professor Evans wrote _Hogwarts Founders_ on the chalkboard, and awarded one point to Ravenclaw.

This continued for some time, with Professor Evans going around the classroom pointing to various students to get history facts from, and awarding one point to whichever house each student was from, Ravenclaw or Gryffindor for this class period. Hermione, when it was her turn, tried to mention every single bit of history she knew about, until the Professor awarded her one extra point for studiousness, but said that he’d only asked for one history fact.

“Neville Longbottom.” Professor Evans called, and Neville gulped. He’d hoped he might get overlooked, but apparently not. Neville thought furiously, trying to think of one history fact that no one had mentioned yet.

“Voldemort was defeated in 1981.” Neville blurted out, then instantly regretted it. Several students flinched, and someone sitting in the row behind him whispered, _of course he’d choose that one_. Neville reddened, and stared down at his desk, not wanting to see the professor’s expression. He heard chalk scraping on the chalkboard.

“One point to Gryffindor, I’m surprised it took so long to get to that one.” Professor Evans said, and when Neville glanced up, he saw that _Voldemort_ was now written on the board. “It may not seem like history because it happened so recently, but we can’t overlook modern magical history.”

Professor Evans continued, and the very last student to be called was Ron, who muttered something about the founding of his favorite quidditch team. Professor Evans dutifully wrote _Quidditch_ on the board, and awarded Gryffindor one last point.

“Well, that’s everybody. Let’s see what you all have learned about.” Professor Evans stepped back from the board, and looked over the assembled list. “Goblin rebellions, the Ministry of Magic, Merlin, the founding of Hogwarts, werewolf uprisings, the Wizengamot, your own family histories, Voldemort, Grindelwald, and of course, quidditch.” Professor Evans said, going down the list. “Now, can anyone tell me what all but one of these topics have in common?” Professor Evans asked. A Ravenclaw boy, Neville thought his name might be Goldsmith, or maybe Goldstein, raised his hand. “Yes?”

“Quidditch isn’t history.” The boy said, Ron ducked his head slightly. Professor Evans smiled, looking quite pleased with the answer.

“But of course quidditch is history. Can anyone tell me when quidditch was invented?” Nobody raised their hands, “Come on, I know there’s a few quidditch fans in the room.” Ron slowly raised his hand, looking very nervous. “Yes, Mr. Weasley.”

“1257.” Ron said.

“Wonderful, one point to Gryffindor. Quidditch has been played for many centuries, and a great many witches and wizards have made this sport their life’s work. That’s centuries of history, and while it may not be of interest to everyone, there’s no reason that the history of quidditch isn’t worthy of study.” Professor Evans explained. “Now, having said that, unless I hear that quidditch has been added the history OWLs, I will not be teaching the history of quidditch.” A few students laughed.

“Back to the subject at hand, can anyone tell me what all but one of the topics on the board have in common? And quidditch is not the odd one out.” Professor Evans asked. This time, nobody raised their hand, even Hermione gazed at the board in concentration, but didn’t seem to have an answer. After a few seconds, Professor Evans spoke again, “I’ll give you all a hint, this is the exception.” He circled _Grindelwald_ in chalk. Hermione’s eyes widened, and her hand shot up. “Yes, Ms. Granger.”

“Great Britain.” Hermione said, looking very pleased with her answer.

“Wonderful, one point to Gryffindor. That is correct, with the exception of Grindelwald, every topic that you all have mentioned occured primarily in Great Britain. Even quidditch, while it has become somewhat international in recent centuries, got its start in a broommaker’s shop in England.” Professor Evans said. “Now, let’s go over what I plan to teach this year.” With a wave of his wand, he vanished the chalk off of the chalkboard, and set to work writing something new.

“This class, in the end, is meant to prepare all of you for the OWL exams, and perhaps a few of you will even go on to take the history NEWT.” Professor Evans explained as he wrote, “So, while I aim to give all of you a background in magical world history over the next few years, in the end, the OWL is focused on British magical history, and I would like every one of you to be able to pass your OWL exam.” Professor Evans wrote up a simple schedule of topics on the board, though only Hermione and a few of the Ravenclaws bothered to copy it down.

By the time class ended, Neville had decided that while Professor Lockhart’s class had been terrifying, Professor Evan’s had only been a little bit boring, a vast improvement over Professor Binns’s lectures.


End file.
